The Hunger Games Peeta POV
by nightlockk
Summary: The Hunger Games, written in Peeta Mellarks' point of view. I'm not sure if I should continue


My eyes flutter open when I wake up, and I pause as I lay staring at the ceiling. Light streams in rays through the shutters. I sit up, peeking out the window and into the empty square. Everyone must be sleeping in. Of course they are. This is the day of the reaping.

I hear clattering downstairs. The scent of a mixture of nuts and sugar wafts through the room. They're all awake, of course. The reaping starts at two, and those families who can afford it will be celebrating their luck tonight afterward. Two families will be shutting their curtains, terrified of what shall happen.

I toss the blankets as I sit up, allowing full view of the horizon. Somewhere, a fire begins to kindle and burn, the smoke rising higher and into the atmosphere. It's normal, even it's beyond the fences that protect the district. My father mentioned something about hunting and meat before - dangerously illegal acts. Beyond the square are more of the middle class homes, and then the lesser neighborhood, the Seam. My mother always reminds us harshly of how lucky we are be fed and why we must work for our necessities. I wonder if she has ever been at peace; that must have been when my father met her.

I'm lost in thought as I stare into the distance of District 12 when I hear my name being called from downstairs. I pull on one of my hand-me-down smocks and run my fingers through my curls. They're an ashy mixture of blonde locks that fall in waves over my forehead, which, in all honesty, can be annoying.

I make my way downstairs, stopping at the base to wash up and slip on my snuggly fit steel-toed boots, in the case of a dropped tray. Our bakery is smack center in the district's square, surrounded by many other shops. It's the sight I wake up to everyday, so I'm awfully used to it, but sometimes, it has a warm feeling to it. I walk into the back room, where energy is bustling about. My mother must be in the front room, the shop. I wonder if anyone is buying already. My father and two older brothers are at work and don't seem to notice my presence. My father wearily glances my way, waving me over.

I step out of the way as Rye, the eldest, opens up an oven, heaving in a tray of dough. I step around and over to my father's side.

"We've got three done so far, so just get those done so you can help out Roti with the dough," he says, gesturing to my older brother, who nods in reply.

I nod in return and turn to my table, taking a seat on the uneven stool. Colors and patterns are stained across the tabletop, and I pull my box of hues towards me. Next to me are empty canvases of cake, so I quickly get to work. Squeezing various tints across the each, they come out different and unique. I'm the only one of my family who decorates the cakes in the shop; I have calm hands and, apparently, an eye for detail.

As I finish the last of the three, I carefully bring each out to be displayed at the windows, pushing the door open and carefully waltzing to the front windows. My mother is arranging pita bread , empty and floury, like carcasses. Ironic, isn't it? Peeta, for pita; Rye for a type of grain; Roti for a flatbread. My mother thought it would be clever to name us all after types of bread. My father only went along with the idea to please her.

Sun begins to stretch across the square, casting early morning shadows. Shutters are raised and other shops begin to open to the public need. I see a figure crossing the square towards our shop. I begin to make out a tall boy I've seen around school, and based on his gray eyes and dark hair, it is obvious that he's from the Seam. He sees me, surely, but passes our shop and heads towards the back, past the shop. Oh well.

I turn around to find my mother wearing a particularly twisted scowl.

"Business will be slow in the morning," she says. "Tell your father not to make too much until later in the day. The customers won't appreciate stale bread. Get back to work."

I nod in understanding and make my way back, finding the boy and my father standing together near the backdoor.

"It's fine, young man. One will be enough for today," my father speaks in a hushed tone, so as my mother won't happen to overhear.

The boy nods solemnly and I watch as they exchange goods. I've watched them do this before, always out of my mother's line of sight. It's for the best though, easy meat. Mother has never questioned, if she's ever even stopped to notice. The boy gives me another glance before they finish the trade and turns on his heel as he takes his leave. He's attractive; many of the other girls from town talk of him, even if he happens to be from the Seam. I wonder what it would be like to be born to a misfortunate life. I constantly deem myself lucky.

My father turns, shutting the door softly behind him. I repeat my mother's message to him.

"Ah. Well, I guess we can all take a break for now," he says, moving to store the freshly hunted squirrel.

Roti and Rye immediately sigh in relief.

"I guess we'd better get ready for the event," Rye adds.

"Oh, yes," as if my father had forgotten. "You boys go upstairs, be sure to get those buns out later."

He trudges out to the front, wiping his hands on his smock. My brothers and I trudge up the stairs in single file. We share the closet. Since we're all about the same size, it doesn't really matter what we wear or whose it is. We pull out our best clothes, and I tug on a plain button-down, collared shirt. We should look our best in the case that we're chosen to be killed.

It happens every year. The reaping. Only me and Roti are entered now, Rye is already 20. Children in every district are entered, from ages 12 to 18. I used to be terrified of the annual event, but after watching the mandatory reapings year after year, I find myself lucky enough not to have to enter for tesserae. Those families who need extra rations of oil and grain have a choice to sign their kids up for tesserae, entering their names multiple times as they age and extra times if needed for each family member. I can't imagine the pain and suffering they must endure if they must risk a life for the sake of their family's survival. Many people starve in this district. What other choice is there? Work until your bones brittle, if not break, and then starve to death. Only in District 12. Not that I know much about other districts, but as I know it here, the government control is ridiculous.

We're lucky in a way. Our peacekeepers slack off, as far as I know. If they did their job correctly, that boy who brings us meat would surely be dead, as well as many other citizens who earn a living illegally. Amongst my mother's constant 'life lesson' lectures is a special speech of why we should not associate with the black marketers.

Snapping out of my thoughts, I turn to the mirror, immediately wiping stray frosting from my cheek. I turn to my brothers, who lay back on their beds across our small compartment space. We don't talk much, even if we are family. Maybe it's the awkwardness of our lives. Maybe it's distance. We work, we clean, I still go to school. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I stand up, glancing over at the two.

"I'm going for a walk," I say flatly. Neither of the two move and I shrug. Oh well.

I come to a halt at the base of the stairs, turning on a dime towards the oven before I leave. I slip on thick gloves and pull down the oven as a blast of heat rushes by and fills the room. After I haul out the rolls, I place them in the back racks. They're heavy, but working from a young age, my brothers and I have built a strong figure from lifting.

I make my way towards the front shop, giving my mother and father a lighthearted wave as I set out towards the other shops. She's sorting money; he's sorting pastries. Oh, to keep a marriage functional.

There are little to no people out today, although the day is waning. I spot only shop owners and the occasional street urchin, but other than that, the streets are deserted. Everyone must be getting ready by now.

My stomach gives a harsh tug. I'd forgotten that I hadn't had anything to eat, but I decide to walk it off. I honestly don't feel like eating the stale bread no one buys, and I'm sure we have nothing else to eat. We never do. There is only so much provided.

I find myself at the other end of the square, having already walked around the shops absent-mindedly, and decide to head back to the shop before citizens start pouring into the square for the reaping. Already, peacekeepers are closing off sections and pens with old velvet ropes. The podium and stage are being readied, and I silently make my way back to our shop. Mother sits at the register with a blank expression in her eyes, like she's lost in memory. The small bell rings when I open the door and the smell of fresh crust rolls by. My mother immediately looks startled, as if she's never seen me before. She quickly pretends to busy herself as I pass through the shop and take a seat next to her. I shrug it off, because I don't want to bother anyone. She never talks about what happened when she was younger. Never mentions it at all, actually. We don't bother to ask.

It must be around noon by now, for the sun burns high and the shadows hang low beneath their casters. Varnished banners (which are reused every year) are being hung about the square. Each reaping will be broadcasted across Panem, mandatory to watch by law, and the Capitol doesn't want our district to look as worn down as it really is. It's just a mask over reality, which is a great metaphor of the Capitol citizens. Every year, they come out with different trends in a twisted, grotesque array of fashions. The dyed hair, skin, surgically altered bodies. They're like the dress up dolls that Delly showed me when we were kids: you can literally look like whatever you want. Here in our district, alteration is a disgusting thing. Age is a beautiful thing. Weight is a thing envied by most. You would be lucky to be fed, to grow old enough to die of age. I see the people in the Capitol and I don't want any part in their games. Death for entertainment.

I pluck a stale piece of bread from our small pile and feed myself piece by piece, ripping off chunks of the hardening bread. When I finish, I close my eyes, watching the light dance on my eyelids, and finally drift off into a haze until my mom shakes me harshly. My eyes snap open, and I see the square is already beginning to become crowded.

"I told you to hurry up!" she scolds as she flattens out my hair.

Roti, Rye, and my father are already standing at the doorway. I stand up and shake my head, trying to shake off the grogginess. My mother gives a shove, a little to roughly, towards the door, and we push our way into the crowd. My mother waves Roti and me towards the pens for each age group in the reaping. She goes to sign us in, as to keep track of district population. My father and Rye head towards the older crowd to wait and watch.

I am greeted by those I associate with in school, but it's a hushed hello. Everyone is nervous today. I squint and look around the square. Already, there are cameras perched on roofs and blending in the crowd. As minutes pass, the square becomes more crowded, and we begin to scrunch together in a mass of children. We face the Justice Building of our district, where the stage is set up. Three chairs stand in the center, right in front of the large Panem emblem. Two glass balls are carefully placed on each side of the stage, each filled with papers slips. Each with names of the children of District 12. I try not to worry about mine, instead I worry about the more unfortunate kids. How many slips they must have compared to me . . .

I watch the mayor ascend the steps and take a seat in one of the three chairs. He is followed by Effie Trinket, the District 12 escort, bouncing towards her seat with shocking pink hair due and clashing green suit. Her smile is stretched and the white gives a glare as she smiles into the hushing crowd. Mayor Undersee tugs her sleeve, whispering something in her ear. They glance to the side at the empty seat, unsuccessfully hiding their concern.

The town clock begins to toll at two, and they give each other one last nod before the mayor stands, steps up to the podium, and begins to read. It's a mandatory speech given before every reaping in every district: the history of Panem, which was called North America once upon a time; an endless list of disasters: droughts, storms, fires, the flooding seas, brutal war. The outcome of the world's plummet was Panem, controlled by the Capitol and sorted into thirteen districts. No doubt, the districts rebelled, referred to as the Dark Days. All were defeated, and the last was destroyed as a message of finalism. The Treaty of Treason was made to control us with law, or "peace", and as a reminder and warning, the Hunger Games were born.

There are no rules, only survival. One boy and one girl from each district. Twenty-four tributes. Twenty-four innocent children trapped in an arena to fight to the death. It could take days, even weeks. Plus, the arena can be anything, and the gamemakers tend to have fun choosing variety. One year, it's a desert, another a frozen wasteland. They control everything in each deathtrap: water, heat, animals. They like to mix it up. It's merely a show to the Capitol; cruel punishment to most districts. Although, I've noticed that in the richer districts, like one and two, it seems like an honor to participate in the bloodbath. Only the oddest from the ruler and the lapdogs.

To add insult to injury, we are forced to celebrate, to be enjoyed as annual festivity. As if each district is a team, and we must cheer for our own. The winning tribute, as in last one standing, and their district will be rewarded for the rest of each year until the next games. The winner will enjoy a life of luxury.

The mayor wraps things up and lists the previous winners from our districts, which is easy, seeing as there have only been two. There is only one left living, Haymitch Abernathy. As if on cue, he lunges onto the stage, crumpling into the third chair. He slurs his words and raises his arm, as if to answer a question. It's obvious that he's drunk. No one has ever seen him sober, actually. The crowd gives a half-hearted round of applause, and he perks up, jerking his head around as if to locate the source of the noise. He turns to Effie and begins to lean on her, and she quickly scoots away in disgust.

The mayor flinches, in attempt to stay cool. Each reaping is broadcasted live, and with no doubt, District 12 must look ridiculous. He tries to draw attention back to the event, and calls Effie Trinket to the podium.

She bounces happily in what looks like a forced smile and adjusts the microphone.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" she squeaks, her Capitol accent punctuating every word.

Her curls appear ruffled, but she continues to ramble on about what an honor it is to represent our district, even though everyone knows how much she wishes to be promoted to a better district, with real victors, not those who embarrass you in the view of the nation.

I spot the back of Roti's head several yards in front of me, and try to find my family in the crowd. I realize my fists are clenched and I take a deep breath, releasing my stress. I decide to concentrate on Effie's suit, swirling the colors with her hair to create mixtures of frosting in my mind. The sun dances off of her processed curls and I tilt my head to watch the hues and shadows move. I'll make a new design based on them later.

The crowd hushes and I realize that Effie is already making her way towards one of the glass balls, happily announcing," Ladies first!"

She daintily pushes her arm into the ocean of slips, and pulls out a slip. There is silence; no one makes a sound as the crowd holds their breath. I squeeze my eyes shut and feel my heartbeat increasing, hoping, no, praying for the girl to be called. Maybe if I don't know them, it won't bother me as much. I hear Effie pushing the microphone again as she trills the next name. The crowd doesn't release the breath.

It's Primrose Everdeen.


End file.
